Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (20 page)

Unlike his father and grandfather, Umar’s relationships with the peasants and weavers whose families dominated Hudayl were cordial, even friendly. He attended their weddings and funerals, displaying a knowledge of their names and the number of children in each family which surprised and pleased them. ‘This lord is a lord,’ a weaver would say to his wife. ‘Of that there can be no doubt. He benefits from our labours just as his fathers did, but he is a decent lord.’

There was no time tonight for such niceties. Umar was in an impatient mood. He had not spoken a great deal during the discussion and he was now eager for them all to return to their homes. Zubayda had informed him during the evening meal, which had been taken early that day in order to accommodate the debate, that their first-born was engaged in an undertaking which was as rash as it was foolish and she feared for his life. Serving women from the village had informed her that Zuhayr was recruiting young men for ‘the battle.’ Zuhayr had not been present, and when enquiries had been made as to his whereabouts, the groom reported that he had saddled the young master’s favourite steed, but had been given no indication as to his destination. All he knew was that Zuhayr al-Fahl had taken two blankets with him. When the groom had left the room, Hind had been unable to control a smile. That was all Umar needed to make a deduction.

‘Discourteous dog! His great-uncle will debate his great friend Ibn Zaydun on matters of life and death for his family, his faith, our future, and where is our knight? Busy on some hillside impregnating a wretched maid-servant.’

From inside the house Zuhayr observed the departures, feeling regret that he had absented himself from this important occasion. He was feeling sated and tinged with disgust at his own lack of discipline and his affinities to the animal kingdom, but ... but, he thought as he relived the experience, Umayma was so different from those painted whores in Gharnata, whose flesh was manhandled every hour of the day and night. Umayma made him feel irresponsible. She excited his sensuality. She neither expected nor demanded anything more. If he had not gone to her this evening he might never have seen her again. Within three months she would be married to Suleiman, the bald, cross-eyed weaver who spun the finest silk in the village, but who was hardly a match for him, Zuhayr al-Fahl, in the crafts which really mattered.

‘Well?’ said Umar, startling his son. ‘Where were you? Missing the meal was unimportant, but absenting yourself from the debate at such a time? Your absence was noted. Ibn Hasd and Suleiman the weaver were both enquiring after your health!’

‘Peace be upon you, Father,’ muttered Zuhayr, trying desperately not to show his unease. ‘I was out with friends. An innocent evening, I assure you.’

Umar looked at his son and could not restrain a smile. The boy was such an unaccomplished liar. He had his mother’s light-brown eyes and, as he stood there facing him, Umar felt a strong charge of emotion. There was a time when they had been close. It was Umar who had taught Zuhayr to ride and hunt, Umar who had taken him to swim in the river. The boy had often accompanied his father to the court at the al-Hamra. Now he felt he had left the boy alone for far too long, especially since the birth of Yazid. How different they were and how he loved them both.

He slumped on to a large cushion. ‘Sit down, Zuhayr. Your mother tells me that you have made some plans. What are they?’

Zuhayr’s face became very serious. He suddenly looked much older than his years.

‘I’m leaving, Father. Early tomorrow morning. I wanted to bid farewell to all of you tonight, but Yazid is fast asleep and I could not leave without hugging him. I’m leaving for Gharnata. We can’t allow the monks to bury us alive. We must act now before it is too late. Plans for an insurrection are under way. It is a duel with Christianity, Father. Better to die fighting than live the life of a slave.’

Umar’s heart began to pound. He saw a vision. A clash with the Captain-General’s soldiers. Confusion. Swords are raised, shots are heard, and his Zuhayr lies on the grass with a hole in his head.

‘It is a crazy plan, my child. Most of these young men who rant in the baths of Gharnata will run at the first sight of the Castilians. Let me finish. I have no doubt that you will find a few hundred boys to fight on your side. History is full of young fools getting drunk on religion and rushing to do battle with the infidel. Far easier to drink poison underneath a tree by the river and die peacefully. But better still to live, my son.’

Zuhayr’s mind was not free of doubt, but he knew better than to admit that to his father. He truly did not wish to be talked out of the endeavour which he and his friends had been planning ever since the bonfire on the Bab al-Ramla. His face remained deadly serious.

‘Contrary to what you imagine, Father, I have no great hopes for the success of our uprising, but it is necessary.’

‘Why?’

‘So that things stay the same in our kingdom of Gharnata. It is bad, but better it should stay like this than be handed over to Torquemada’s animals, who they call priests and familiars. If our last Sultan, may God curse him, had not capitulated without a fight, things might have been different. Isabella treats us like whipped dogs. Our challenge will show them and others of our faith throughout this peninsula that we will die on our feet, not our knees; that there is still some life underneath the ruins of our civilization.’

‘Foolish, foolish boy!’

‘Ask Ibn Daud what he saw in Sarakusta and Balansiya on his way to Gharnata. Every Muslim who fled from the Christians has said the same.’

Despite himself, Umar felt an unusually strong sense of pride in his son. He had underestimated Zuhayr.

‘What are you talking about boy? You’re very unlike yourself. Talking in riddles.’

‘I’m talking about the looks on the faces of their priests as they depart to supervise the torture of innocents and the making of orphans in the dungeons of the Inquisition! Unless we fight now everything will die, Father. Everything!’

‘Perhaps everything will die in any case, whether you fight or not.’

‘Perhaps.’

Umar knew that Zuhayr, deep inside himself, was tormented by uncertainties. He sympathized with his son’s dilemma. Having spoken up at the mosque, and having boasted of victories that lay ahead in the company of his friends, the boy felt trapped. Umar determined to prevent his son’s departure.

‘You are still a young man, Zuhayr. At your age death appears to be an illusion. I will not let you throw your life away. Anything could happen to me, now that I have decided that conversion is impossible. Who would look after your mother and sisters? Yazid? They have taken power and authority away from us, but the estates are still intact. We can enjoy our wealth in peace and dignity. Why should al-Hudayl disturb the Castilians? Their eyes are on a new world, on its mountains of silver and gold. They have defeated us and resistance is futile. I forbid you to leave!’

Zuhayr had never fought in a real battle. His experience was limited to the intensive training he had received in the arts of war as a boy. He was an expert swordsman and his daredevil exploits on horseback were well known to all those who attended the tournaments in Gharnata on the Prophet’s birthday. But he could not forget that he had yet to cross swords with a real enemy.

As he looked into his father’s grim face, Zuhayr realized that this was his last opportunity to change his mind. He could simply inform his fellow conspirators that his father had forbidden him to leave the house. Umar was widely respected and they would all understand. Or would they? Zuhayr could not tolerate the thought that one of his friends might accuse him of cowardice. But that was not his only concern. Zuhayr did not believe that al-Hudayl would be safe as long as Ximenes held sway in Gharnata. That made him feel that Umar was dangerously out of tune with the times.

‘Abu,’ began Zuhayr plaintively, ‘nothing matters to me as much as the safety of our home and the estates. That is why I must go. My mind is set. If you instruct me to stay here against my will and my judgement, then of course I will not disobey, but I will be unhappy, and when I am unhappy, Abu, I think of death as a consolation.

‘Can you not see that the monks will destroy everything? Sooner or later they must reach al-Hudayl. They want to reduce al-Andalus to a desert. They want to burn our memory. How then can they permit even a single oasis to survive? Do not compel me to stay. You must understand that what I want to do is the one course that might save our home and our faith.’

Umar was unconvinced, and the argument continued, with Zuhayr growing ever more adamant as the hours went by. Finally Umar perceived that his son could not be kept at home against his will. His face softened. Zuhayr knew at once that he had won his first battle. He understood his father’s temperament. Once Umar agreed to something, he sat back and did not meddle.

The two men stood up. Umar hugged his son and kissed his cheeks. Then he walked to a large chest and from it removed a beautifully engraved silver scabbard which contained the sword of Ibn Farid. He drew the weapon and, holding it with both his hands, lifted it above Zuhayr’s head and handed it to him.

‘If fight you must, then best to do it with a weapon tried and tested in many battles.’

Zuhayr’s eyes became moist.

‘Come,’ said Umar bin Abdallah. ‘Let us go and break the news to your mother.’

As Zuhayr, proudly carrying the sword of his great-grandfather, followed his father through the inner courtyard, they ran into Miguel and Zahra. Four different voices resounded in unison.

‘Peace be upon you.’

Miguel and Zahra saw their father’s sword and understood everything.

‘God protect you, child,’ said Zahra, kissing his cheeks.

Zuhayr did not reply, but stared at the odd couple. The encounter had disturbed him. Then his father tapped him gently on the shoulder and they walked away. It had all lasted a few seconds. Zuhayr thought it was a bad omen.

‘Will Miguel ... ?’ he began to ask his father, but Umar shook his head.

‘Unthinkable,’ he whispered. ‘Your great-uncle Miguel would never put the Church before his own family.’

For a while Zahra and Miguel stood still, like sentinels on guard duty. Remnants of a generation which had ceased to exist. The sky above them was full of stars, but neither it nor the solitary lamp on the wall, just above the entrance to the bath-chamber, gave much light. In the night shadows, with their bent spines draped in thick woollen shawls, they resembled a pair of stunted, weatherbeaten pine trees. It was the Bishop who broke the silence.

‘I fear the worst.’

Zahra was about to say something when Hind and Ibn Daud, followed by three maid-servants, entered the courtyard. None of them saw the old lady or Miguel. The young man bowed and was about to walk away to his room, till he heard a voice.

‘Ibn Daud!’

It was Hind who replied.

‘Wa Allah! You frightened me, Great-Uncle. Peace be upon you, Great-Aunt.’

‘Come,’ said Miguel to Ibn Daud, ‘you can walk me to my room, which is next to where you sleep. I never thought the day would come when I would stay in the chambers reserved for guests in this house.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Zahra. ‘Where else could they put you? In the stables? Hind, I need you to press me tonight. The cold is eating into my bones and I have been feeling a pain in my chest and shoulders.’

‘Yes, Great-Aunt,’ said Hind, dismissing the servants with a nod and looking longingly at the back of the young man with green eyes. Ibn Daud was escorting the Bishop through the corridor which linked the courtyard to a set of rooms which had been added to the house by Ibn Farid. There visiting Christian knights had been feasted and provided with nocturnal entertainments.

How strange, Zahra is thinking, that this child who I barely know and who has just reached her eighteenth year, reminds me so much of my own youth. Her father sees her still as a flower in bud. How wrong he is, how wrong all fathers are and will remain. She is in full bloom, like the orange-blossoms in spring. Those blossoms whose scent excites the senses. As if to make sure, Zahra lifted herself with the aid of a pillow-cushion and looked down on her great-niece, who was diligently but gently pressing the toes on her left foot. Even in the weak glow of the lamplight, Hind’s skin, normally the colour of wild honey, was flushed and animated. Her eyes were shining and her mind was elsewhere. They were familiar symptoms.

‘Does he love you as much?’

The suddenness of the question startled the girl.

‘Who could you be talking about, Great-Aunt?’

‘Come, child, it is not like you to be so coy. Everything is written on your face. Here I was thinking that you were excited by what happened this evening. Miguel told me what you shouted at him. He’s not really upset—admires you for it—but you’ve forgotten it all, haven’t you? Where have you been?’

Hind, unlike her calm and contented older sister Kulthum, was temperamentally incapable of dissimulation. At the age of nine she had shocked a religious scholar from Ishbiliya, who also happened to be her mother’s first cousin, by challenging his interpretation of the al-koran. The theologian had been denouncing every possible pastime in which Muslim nobles indulged as ‘forbidden,’ and had developed the argument to demonstrate how all this sensual irresponsibility had led to the decline of al-Andalus. Hind had interrupted him in mid-flow with a memorable intervention, still recalled with pleasure by the Dwarf and his friends in the village.

‘Uncle,’ the young girl had asked with a sweet smile, which was completely out of character. ‘Did not our Prophet, peace be upon him, once say in a
hadith
which has never been questioned, that the angels loved only three sports?’

The theologian, deceived by her smile and delighted that one so young could be so well versed in the scriptures, had stroked his beard and responded warmly.

‘And what were these, my young princess?’

‘Why horse-racing, shooting at a mark and copulation, of course!’

The uncle from Ishbiliya had choked on the meat which he had, till then, been consuming quite happily. Zuhayr had excused himself and collapsed with laughter in the kitchen. Zubayda had been unable to control a smile and Umar had been left to divert the conversation, which he had accomplished with some finesse. Kulthum alone had remained silent and offered her uncle a glass of water. For some reason this gesture had left a deep impact on the scholar. It was his son whom Kulthum was due to marry next month.